This is my Bargain
by RabbitRun
Summary: What if Loki had ended up winning the battle? It's one thing to be killed at the hand of your enemy; it's another thing to be killed at the hand of your friend. What happens when your savior becomes your murderer? She knew one thing: she didn't want to die like this.
1. Chapter 1

My take on what might have happened had Loki actually captured Natasha and escaped. I'm hoping to make it a two-shot with Clint's reaction as the second chapter (his portion of Loki's threat.) I own nothing. It's okay to disagree with this interpretation- this is just one take on how things may have gone!

She had often wondered what it would be like on the other side of the gun.

She wondered what it would be like to stare into the black hole of the barrel that would erupt at any second. She wondered what went through their heads: did they think of their families? Did they ask what they could have done to make their lives more worthwhile? Did they latch onto their faith and pray as the words jumbled in their heads? Or did their thoughts cease to exist long before the bullet lodged itself in their brains?

She didn't know.

She didn't want to die like this.

He was walking towards her, slowly, mechanically. That was what he was now—unthinking, robotic, an empty shell that used to be Clint Barton.

His face was now just centimeters from hers; she could feel his breath on her mouth. He smelled of sulfur and must. The old Clint smelled like cedar, soap, and Crest toothpaste.

She wanted her old Clint.

"_You're going to die, Agent Romanoff," _Loki had whispered into her ear minutes ago, just before he left the damp prison cell to Clint Barton's mercy. His lips brushed against her ear and she suppressed a shudder. She would not show weakness here.

"_You bastard." She spat the words out as if trying to get a bad taste out of her mouth. Her voice sounded alien to her: it was trembling and raspy, like that of someone approaching death. "The only person who's going to die is—"_

"Natalia Romanova." It was Clint speaking now.

She was going to die.

"No, no, not Natalia." She was trembling more now; her bloody hand reached forward to touch him. "It's Nat, remember? Nat Romanoff."

"You're no one to me."

It was as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. She couldn't speak, she couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She felt like she was going to cry.

"Clint, baby, don't say that. You don't mean that. It's me, Natasha—your partner. Your best friend." Her voice sounded pleading; she had long ago made a vow to never beg in her life, but she was willing to now. She would get down on her knees if it meant bringing her Clint back.

"I know exactly who you are," the body of Clint said in a deadened voice. "You're a nobody; an abomination. You've done so much bad that you're worth more dead than alive. When I look at you, all I see is a dead body of somebody I used to know. And the best part is that you're going to die knowing that. You're nothing, Natalia; I could have finished you, snapped your pathetic little neck when Fury had asked me to, and no one would have cared. They'd be too busy celebrating."

Natasha thought she let out a sob, but she wasn't sure; it sounded more like an animal that had just been shot. It was guttural and primal, and every time it echoed off the walls Natasha shook harder. She felt numb. She just wanted this to end. She wanted her Clint.

"Clint, please, listen to me." Natasha shakily got up. Her leg was starting to buckle—it throbbed so much—but she didn't care. She needed to touch him, to hug him, to know that this nightmare was just that—a nightmare. She needed to wake up in his arms in their apartment, like she did every night.

This wasn't happening.

She was going to die.

"This isn't you." _Was she saying it to him or to herself? _"It's me. It's Natasha. Please, _please _remember me, I'm begging you. We're going to get through this; we're going to change you back and we're going to go home and be together and pretend this never happened. You can beat this, Clint—we can beat this. Please, baby, I need you to do this for me." She was getting closer to him; she could almost touch him.

Pain.

Incredible pain.

It rippled down her spine and radiated through her entire body, culminating in the tip of her head. She screamed. And then...

Nothing.

She fell to the ground.

She couldn't move; why couldn't she move?

She felt something warm and sticky seeping through the back of her shirt—it started near her tailbone and was rapidly spreading in all directions. She realized with a sinking heart that it was blood; it was her blood. Clint had lodged a knife into her spine, cutting off the nerves and rendering her paralyzed. She felt sick. She wanted to throw up.

She was going to die.

All senses were lost; her head was spinning, her limbs tingled, her breath came in short, ragged gasps. She could hear Clint walking towards her—his shoes squelched in the puddle of blood that was seeping from her wound onto the floor. He fell to his knees beside her, clutching her chin in his hand and yanking it so that she could see his icy eyes.

"Clint, honey, if you're in there, I love—"

His fingers closed around her throat. They were rough and calloused, such a stark contrast to the tender ones that had caressed her face so many times before. Air escaped her lungs; she had uttered her last words. She felt helpless. All she could do was wait.

They say that before you die your whole life flashes before your eyes. Natasha had never believed in clichés; they were corny and cheap used only by those whose lives were cumbersome and tedious. But she was wrong; that seemed to have become a pattern lately.

Not that it would last much longer.

Six years ago: the first time she saw Clint, on that snow-covered roof in St. Petersburg. He was confident, brooding, unlike anyone she had ever seen before. He said he believed in her. He had given her a chance.

No one had done that before.

Change scene, to their first mission together, a meth lab in Shanghai. They had moved in tandem, as one instead of two, their actions synchronized, their breaths matched. They won.

He bought her a drink.

Seven months later: their first fight. Not just an argument—they had those all the time—but a full-blown fight, complete with kicking and screaming and several loud crashes. What was it about? She had gone through his things and found a letter. Or maybe it was a picture. She couldn't remember now; her vision was fading and it was getting harder to think. She didn't apologize, he didn't speak to her. Three days later they moved on.

She wanted to tell him she was sorry.

A muggy bog in Cambodia: he kissed her. It was beautiful, magical; she was floating and nothing could touch her. _Was she floating now? Her body felt numb..._ There was nothing romantic about it—mosquitos were leaving welts in their skin and sweat trickled down their noses and into their meshed mouths. But she didn't care; for them, it made sense. For them, it was perfect. She had kissed many men in her life, but never like this.

She couldn't feel her lips.

The first time they made love. It wasn't anything like she had fantasized; it was slow, passionate, tender. The lust was there, but it wasn't the force that drove them—she wanted to touch him, to love him, to be as close to him as humanly possible. Every kiss, every caress reminded her that she was his, and he was hers; that night, no one and nothing else existed—it was just the two of them.

The numbness was spreading to her body.

He told her he loved her.

They had just finished a mission in Bangladesh, and they went back to their hotel to call it a night. Her head was on his chest; she could feel the warmth of his skin, the beating of his heart. His heart always beat faster when they touched. He leaned in and kissed her ear and whispered it, so softly that she wasn't even sure if she had heard correctly. He thought she was asleep. She didn't reply, and eventually the two drifted off. To her knowledge, Clint had never repeated it, at least not to her.

Why hadn't she said it back? What was wrong with her?

Blackness was closing in—she had mere seconds left before it would be permanent. Was this what everyone she killed had gone through? She didn't feel guilty; she couldn't feel anything.

She was going to die.

At least, in some way, she would die in the arms of the man she loved.

That was something, she guessed.

Let me know what you think! It's okay if you disagree with this interpretation. Clint's side will be up soon. Feedback is appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

It was dark when Clint Barton opened his eyes. Well, not opened his eyes per se—he had never physically closed them—but when his mind awakened, he couldn't see.

But he could smell. What was that smell?

It was sulfuric, metallic; there was something else, too, something he couldn't place. Whatever it was, it was rancid. He felt like throwing up.

And his pants...they were wet...what was he kneeling in? He didn't know, his mind still felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

It clicked—blood. He was sitting in a pool of blood. He felt sick; his brain hurt, his body throbbed with each pulse. He needed to leave. He needed to see Natasha—Natasha would fix it.

He crawled forward but bumped into something soft before he could make it to the door. He looked down.

He saw Natasha.

Something ineffable formed in his stomach. He couldn't tell if it was vomit or shock; it gurgled, festered, filled him up and bubbled through his throat into his mouth, his eyes, his mind. His eyes bulged from their sockets, his mouth hung open—he looked like a bird who had just slammed into a window.

Clint heard a sound. It started out as a low whine, like a child beginning to throw a tantrum. It increased in volume until it ripped through the silence of the room; it sounded alien, animalistic, interrupted only by sobs of utter panic. No human should have been able to make that sound.

Who was making that noise?

It was him. Clint Barton was screaming.

His hands flew to his face; he clawed at the skin on his cheeks, yanking at it as if trying to detach it from the bones. Well-groomed nails dug into the flesh; he felt it break.

Clint leaned forward and retched—he didn't know if anything actually came out. He felt dizzy; his body shook, saliva dripped from his mouth, sweat trickled from his pores. Was he hot or cold? He didn't know. He needed Natasha.

But Natasha was dead.

He leaned forward and touched his head to the floor. He needed to breathe, just to breathe...this was all a vision...Loki had hypnotized him...everything would be all right...

No it wouldn't. She was dead. He had killed her. He had murdered her.

Natasha. His beautiful Natasha. He could barely look at her now; her skin was purple, her lips engorged, her mouth agape in one last attempt to draw breath. The worst part was her eyes—her intense, gorgeous eyes. They had rolled back into her head; all he could see were bulging red veins.

He would never see her eyes again.

Natasha Romanoff was dead.

He picked the limp body up and held it to his chest, cradling it, clutching it; he wouldn't let go, he would never let go. He would use his arms to shield her from the world, from pain, from death. Because she wasn't dead; Natasha—his Natasha, his partner, his best friend, his lover—couldn't be dead. Because he would protect her; he'd hold her forever if he had to.

Because something so ugly as death should never happen to someone so beautiful.

He kissed her. He kissed her face, her neck, her hands, her chest; he kissed her lips. But she didn't kiss back; why didn't she kiss back? She always kissed back.

He kissed her harder, desperately, his tears wetting his lips. Her own were cold and tasted like blood.

Okay, so she didn't feel like kissing him—was she angry? Was she mad at him?

_Of course she was; he murdered her._

Suddenly she twitched.

"Tasha," he croaked. "Tasha, baby, wake up. It's me, it's Clint. I'm going to take you home. It's going to be okay. We can go away, okay? Wherever you want. Norway, maybe; it's cold this time of year. You like the cold, right, Nat? Or maybe somewhere warm—you feel so cold right now. Yeah, we'll go to Tahiti-Tahiti will warm you right up."

No answer. The smell was getting worse.

"Please." He was begging; he never begged. But he would beg for Natasha.

"Please, sweetheart, you have to wake up. For me. Do it for me, okay? Natasha? NATASHA!"

He took her by the shoulders and shook her so hard that he could hear her teeth clack together.

Nothing happened. Her head lolled back, and he could see the outlines of her esophagus.

His trembling hands traced the purple finger-shaped outlines that contrasted almost artistically with the whiteness of her skin. They fit his own perfectly, like a mold.

_Because he had strangled her._

Pictures of what could have been flooded through his head; he couldn't think about the past now, he couldn't think about all they had been through together. It made her death seem too permanent, too real. Maybe if he closed his eyes, held her in his arms and slept for the next ten years, he would wake up to find her face in his chest, stroking his arm with her thumb. He would play with her hair, whisper in her ear, tell her he was sorry, and everything would be all right.

They would take what little they had and retire, go somewhere where no one would ever find them. They wouldn't need anyone else—they had each other. That was enough. They'd get married, maybe on a beach somewhere. But it would have to be in the fall; she always came alive in the fall, and her hair matched the changing leaves so perfectly. She would wear white. She never wore white—she thought it was too childish, too innocent—but she looked so beautiful in it. He had only ever seen her in it once, but the image would be with him forever. It was at a yacht party in Tokyo, during a mission in which they were assigned to take down a meth dealer; she wore a white sundress that ruffled in the wind and hugged her curves perfectly. He walked up to her, asked her to dance; she smiled—one of those rare, beautiful smiles that showed all of her teeth and wrinkled the corners of her eyes—and for a moment, he forgot about everything else and saw only Natasha. They were supposed to pretend not to know each other, but he didn't care; he would answer to Fury later if he had to. It was that day that he fell in love with Natasha. He whispered it to her that night, when she was asleep; he doubted she heard.

What he wouldn't give to tell her one more time.

They wouldn't have kids; it just wouldn't work for them. They had lived their entire lives alone until they found each other, and when they did, they were all they needed. And besides, Natasha having children just didn't compute—she was too special, too unique, too...Natasha...to be genetically copied. Any child of Natasha would just turn out as some kind of warped reflection of the real one.

But none of that would happen. She was dead.

Emitting a heart-breaking, explosive sound, Clint clutched Natasha's head to his chest one last time. Both of their bodies shook with his sobs; he choked out her name over and over, burying his face in her hair, trying to extract any last trace of scent that still lingered on his partner.

If he had been paying attention, Clint would have heard the sound of a door opening and light footsteps padding towards him. Before he could turn around, he felt a sharp, skull-splitting pain in the back of his head.

Everything went black.


End file.
